


rise from your cold hospital bed

by otterrific



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterrific/pseuds/otterrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has been an agent of SHIELD for eight years, eleven months and six days the first time he misses a shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rise from your cold hospital bed

He has been an agent of SHIELD for eight years, eleven months and six days the first time he misses a shot. 

 

Clint prides himself on his unwavering focus in the field. When he’s on a job, his world narrows until it’s nothing but him and the mark, the bow an extension of his arm. Nock, aim, release. The satisfaction when the arrow sinks into his target. Nock, aim, release. When he works alongside Natasha, he senses her movements more than sees, adjusting his own accordingly; they work as a seamless unit, and he can’t afford to spare so much as a glance in her direction, because he cannot miss. Nock, aim —

 

He feels the loss of balance acutely when the stray bullet pierces her flesh, and as she falls, his hand stutters on the bowstring. His arrow hits yards away from its mark, but it doesn’t register. _Tasha._

 

His bow clatters to the ground as he kneels beside her, and there is  _so much blood_ and  _Tasha_. She is conscious, but barely, and he carefully assesses the wound to her abdomen. This is so far beyond his first aid training, and HYDRA’s hired guns are advancing on them rapidly; they have maybe forty seconds to escape before their position is hopelessly compromised. “Tasha,” he murmurs, hoping she doesn’t hear the panic in his voice. “Can you move? We need to get out of here.” 

 

“I - I think so.” She tries to push herself upright, and it’s a testament to the pain she must be in that she doesn’t quite manage to hide her wince. 

 

“So, that’s a no.” He arranges her arm over his shoulders and drags her to her feet. Reaching an arm around her, he takes the spare gun from her thigh holster, abandoning his bow in favor of a weapon he could operate one-handed. Clint fires blindly in the direction of their attackers as they make their way down the street, listening for he thud of falling bodies — three, four, five, six, seven — he glances over his shoulder, and they’re clear for the time being. 

 

“I think I bought us a little time,” he tells her, because she’s struggling to keep up and he doubts that she’s been keeping count of his hits. “You want to stop for a minute?” 

 

Natasha jerks her head in the negative, stemming the blood flow from her abdomen with her hand. “No. Let’s just… I can… I’ll make it to the truck.”

 

Clint hesitates for a beat, but her gaze is determined even as she fights for breath. They’d parked less than two hundred yards away, but her chest is heaving with exertion by the time they reach the truck. 

 

“Agent Romanoff is injured,” he barks into the comm, sliding Natasha into the passenger seat as gently as he can manage. “We need extraction and medical. Now.” 

 

“Copy that. ETA eight minutes,” an extraction agent replies, his voice frustratingly calm and collected as he rattles off a set of coordinates. “Is Agent Romanoff going to make it that long?”

 

“She’d fucking better,” Clint mutters, mostly to himself, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. “Eight minutes,” he tells her, and she manages a nod, her eyes slipping shut as she battles unconsciousness. 

 

It takes him three to reach the extraction point just outside the city limits, and he watches her the entire time. He’s out of the truck as soon as he’s pulled to a stop, lifting her from the vehicle to lay her on the ground. 

 

“All right?” he asks, pulling her hand away from the wound and replacing it with his own.

 

She meets his gaze, her lips quirking upward in a half-smile that looks more like a grimace. “Not particularly,” she says, her voice rough and low. “I just got shot.”

 

He doesn’t try to mask his smirk. “Really? Hadn’t noticed. No wonder you weren’t pulling your weight back there.” 

 

Natasha opens her mouth to reply, but she suddenly tenses, and a grunt of pain escapes her. 

 

“Tasha. Stay with me,” he says, slipping his free hand under her and easing her head into his lap. “You’re going to be fine.”

 

“Clint, I…”

 

“Don’t.” 

 

She rolls her eyes. “Your stubbornness never ceases to astound me.” 

 

“Is that a compliment, Miss Romanoff?”

 

“No, it was—” she’s cut off as her body convulses in violent coughs, and Clint wipes blood from her lips. He tips her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

 

“You’re going to be okay,” he insists. “You’re not dying today, Nat.” Clint glances at his watch. “Medical should be here in less than two minutes. You’re going to make it. You don’t have another option.” He doesn’t allow himself to consider the alternative, because he doesn’t have another option, either. They’re both too aware of that. 

 

She attempts another smile. “If you say so.”

“I do.” They fall silent then, because there’s nothing left to say. Theirs has never been a love affair of flowery words and gestures. He slips his free hand into hers, pressing a kiss to it, and she squeezes weakly, a promise. 

**Author's Note:**

> This counts as not depressing, right?
> 
> Also, the title is shamelessly stolen from "Firewood" by Regina Spektor. Go listen.


End file.
